King Rupert IX watched anxiously from the royal balcony as the dragon descended into the courtyard below, the powerful down-draft from its wings sending market stalls careering in all directions and almost dislodging his crown. The graceless landing that followed was accompanied by a revolting squelch as one or two of the less mobile members of the populace failed to get out of the way in time. Masonry dislodged by the impact showered down on the surviving villagers as they hurried for the relative safety of the castle walls, prematurely silenced screams confirming the additional casualties.
While the dragon settled itself, carefully folding back its huge crescent-shaped wings, the King re-adjusted his crown and glanced at the royal party behind him for support. It was not forthcoming. Princess Gretchen had her head buried in his younger brother Prince Cuthbert’s ample chest, the prince had his own head sunk in her curly blonde hair and Queen Elspeth was pointedly looking anywhere other than at him. Rupert IX reluctantly returned his attention to the dragon.
“This gift is not acceptable,” it growled ominously, unfurling its left claw to reveal Prince Tarquin, who tumbled to the cobbles with a stifled yelp. His sacrificial white gown was crumpled and streaked with mud.
“Tarquin!” gasped the Queen and Rupert IX reached out a hand to comfort her, which she deftly avoided. Evidently their only son’s unexpected survival was not about to lead to his own forgiveness. He withdrew the hand. There were, after all, rather more pressing matters to address. With some difficulty he drew himself up to full height, his sequinned robes suddenly heavier, not to mention hotter, than he remembered.
“He is sexually mature, a virgin and of royal blood,” pronounced the King as firmly as he could. “All your conditions have been met.”
“You think you can cheat me like your foolish predecessors?” said the dragon, parting its jaws to reveal sharp, blood-stained teeth. “Perhaps you need reminding of their fates?”
King Rupert IX swallowed. He certainly didn’t need reminding. King Rupert I had been devoured over a century ago after ill-advisedly refusing the dragon’s original demand for a sacrifice once a decade; Rupert’s II and III when the dragon grew tired of sautéing the succession of brave knights sent to slay it; Rupert IV when offering a prostitute in the mistaken belief the dragon would not notice; Rupert V when offering a virginal peasant, although a well-timed heart attack did prevent him being alive at the time; Rupert VI when offering a dead sacrifice after an over-zealous crossbowman thwarted his daughter’s last ditch escape attempt, and Rupert VII when offering no sacrifice and attempting to ambush the dragon when it arrived at the castle, the scorched stonework serving as an indelible reminder of the wisdom of that venture. On each occasion, the dragon had also taken the liberty of incinerating large swathes of the surrounding villages and their inhabitants.
King Rupert IX’s own father, King Rupert VIII, had presided over a period of peace and rebuilding, successfully keeping the dragon appeased with sacrifices throughout his reign, before selfishly succumbing to ill health just as the royal populace suffered an alarming drop in the birthrate of girls. The fact the dragon’s original demand had not specified the required sex, and that Tarquin was, in principle therefore, entirely acceptable, was one thing. Convincing an angry twentymetre-long, fire-breathing lizard of the fact was going to be quite another. Rupert IX began to unroll the parchment in his left hand.
“The gift is compliant,” he said carefully. “According to the original agreement, recorded here…”
“I tasted his loss of purity,” interrupted the dragon, its glowering yellow eyes narrowing to slits.
King Rupert IX hesitated, as a low murmur swept across the crowd below, lapping gently against the castle walls. That was not the objection he had been expecting. He glanced down at Prince Tarquin, who smiled awkwardly back through his dishevelled brown locks, hands playing nervously with the sleeve of his sacrificial gown. It wasn’t possible. His son had been locked in the heavily guarded East tower since his tenth birthday and denied all unsupervised contact with women, even the Queen.
“I assure you my son is pure. Only his personal bodyguard and I have had access to him since he came of age,” protested the King.
“Are you saying I’m mistaken?” said the dragon, thrusting its horned head closer to the King.
The long fleshy appendages either side of its jaws swung back and forth with the movement. Rupert IX opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. It was unlikely to go down well if he told the dragon it was wrong. Perhaps a second confirmation would be enough to convince it.
“Garreshi!” he yelled.
The dragon emitted a guttural growl and shifted its bulk impatiently, further condensing the villagers underneath with a wet sucking noise. Princess Gretchen lurched forward and retched over the edge of the balcony, the liquid splattering onto the cobbles below. King Rupert IX winced. The sound of hurried footfalls echoed along the corridor leading to the royal chambers, and Garreshi appeared. The dark skin of his forearms, which protruded from the sleeves of his tunic, were lightly bathed in sweat. Quite how he managed to retain such youthful looks as a mere servant, when he was at least a year older than the king, Rupert IX had no idea.
“You called, sire,” said Garreshi, with a practiced bow, and the King motioned him forwards. The only visible sign of nerves from the bodyguard as he stepped past Queen Elspeth and out into the presence of the dragon, was a single twitch of his cheek muscles.
“The purity of our gift is being questioned,” began the King, trying to maintain his usual authoritative tone with the servant. “As my son’s guardian, you need to confirm it.”
Garreshi hesitated, looking uncertainly between the King, the dragon and Prince Tarquin, before finally straightening his already immaculate posture and giving a small cough.
“I can confirm that no woman has had sexual relations with Prince Tarquin,” he announced, his eyes fixed on a point in middle distance. The King turned back to the dragon with what would have been a triumphant smile, had his adversary been anyone other than a giant man-eating reptile. Instead, the corners of his lips rose and fell uncertainly. Below him, the watching populace stood tensed like archers awaiting their signal to fire. Only Prince Cuthbert whispering words of comfort to his wife punctured the silence.
And then without warning the dragon lunged for Garreshi, to the accompaniment of screams from those on the royal balcony and gasps from the courtyard below. The bodyguard staggered back and fell cowering into one of the royal thrones, his practised poise entirely deserting him. A blackened tongue emerged slowly from the dragon’s parted jaws and brushed lightly against Garreshi’s forehead.
“P… Please don’t eat me,” stammered Garreshi, pushing himself as far into the throne as he could. The dragon drew slowly back, a malevolent sparkle flashing in its eyes.
“A woman, no,” breathed the dragon. “It’s you who spoiled him.”
There was a moment’s pause as everyone digested the meaning of the words, before Garreshi let out a strangled whimper, quickly drowned by a frenzy of voices erupting from the crowd below.
“How could he?” “He looks the type!” “The shame!”
King Rupert IX looked desperately down at Tarquin in search of a denial, but received only a nervous smile and a defensive shrug. He could feel the eyes of his people on him, drinking in his humiliation. Even Prince Cuthbert and Princess Gretchen were muttering to one another behind him. The presence of a large, dissatisfied lizard sitting just a few feet away seemed suddenly unimportant. He placed a hand on the stone balustrade for support.
“With a man?” he managed weakly.
“A beautiful, beautiful man,” said his son and King Rupert shuddered involuntarily. This was all wrong.
“How could you do this to me?” he croaked. “I provided stacks of explicit paintings for your enjoyment.”
“It’s hardly the same,” retorted Tarquin indignantly. “And I like men. I like Garreshi.”
Garreshi! The man cowering on the throne right beside him. Overtaken by a powerful surge of anger, he rounded on the terrified bodyguard.
“This is your fault!” he spat. “I trusted you!”
“He told me it wouldn’t count,” pleaded Garreshi.
A loud crack interrupted proceedings as the dragon slammed its serpentine tail into the West tower, which promptly collapsed in a cloud of rubble and dust. A chorus of coughing and shouting filled the air, as the peasants sought to escape the destruction.
“Do you have an acceptable gift or not?” the dragon growled over the din.
King Rupert IX had a perfectly acceptable gift, but he wasn’t overly keen on using it. And Garreshi had given him a final argument. If he could just buy another couple of years, his brother’s daughter, Princess Sofia, would be sexually mature and everything would be all right.
“Amongst humans it is accepted that virginity can only be lost during relations between a man and a woman,” said King Rupert IX firmly. “That may not be the opinion held by dragons, but you must then grant us time to prepare a new sacrifice.”
The dragon blew a single plume of thick, black smoke from its nostrils, as a nervous silence fell gently over the courtyard like snow.
“Oh what absolute rubbish!” exclaimed Tarquin suddenly, pouring boiling oil over the delicate proceedings. “I will not let you dismiss my experience like that.”
“You tell him!” yelled a voice from the crowd.
King Rupert IX continued staring directly at the dragon with a fixed smile, in the vain hope that it had not heard and that his son would be struck mute before he could say anything else.
“I still stick it in, don’t I?” continued Tarquin, in direct defiance of his father’s hopes.
“What’s the difference if it’s a woman’s sacred opening or Garreshi’s ar…”
“Tarquin!” said the King sharply.
“It seems there is some dissent on your interpretation,” said the dragon, with what appeared to be amusement.
“Not at all,” said the King. “My son is merely confused, a foolish adolescent. He himself told the bodyguard that it wouldn’t count.”
“That was just to convince him to suck my…”
“Shut up, Tarquin,” snapped the King, red-faced with a mixture of embarrassment and suppressed rage. “You’re arguing for your father’s death, you idiot.”
“Oh that’s right, it’s all about you, isn’t…” began Tarquin, but the rest of his argument was drowned out by the roar of fire belching from the dragon’s mouth straight into the east wall. The unfortunate group of peasants huddled in the direct line of the blast were instantly incinerated, whilst those closest found themselves transformed unexpectedly into human torches. Panicked screams and shouts rang out as their neighbours hurried to douse the flames with water and blankets. A lone villager ran shrieking across the courtyard in a blaze of orange, before his progress was cut abruptly short by the dragon’s descending claw.
“The argument is irrelevant,” it growled, steam billowing from its nostrils. “I also tasted peasant blood in him.”
“Peasant blood?” “He looks the type!” “The shame!”
“I assure you my son is of royal descent!” protested the King.
“But he’s not your son,” said the dragon, with a glint in its eye.
Rupert IX hesitated for a moment, his mouth slightly ajar, as another wave of murmurs swept across the courtyard at the latest revelation to rock the royal boat. How could the dragon possibly know it wasn’t his son?
“Dad?” said Tarquin.
“That is an outrageous lie!” yelled King Rupert in a desperate attempt to avoid Tarquin’s question. The conversation was taking a nasty turn for the worse and it hadn’t exactly been going well before.
“You’re calling me a liar?” said the dragon, lowering its head down to the King’s level.
“Err… well no, not a liar exactly, but…”
“Perhaps I should taste you to make sure,” said the dragon, parting its jaws to allow the blackened tongue to slide out.
“No!” said the King hurriedly, and was relieved to see the tongue withdraw. If it tasted him, he was finished. He flashed another urgent glance at the Queen, who took a step back and conspicuously avoided eye contact. So much for her support.
“OK, he’s not my son,” he said, his hands held up defensively in front of him to form a decidedly ineffective shield. “But…”
“I knew it! I said they didn’t look alike!” came a triumphant female voice, emerging from the ensuing sea of gasps and murmurs.
“But…” shouted the King again, waiting until the swell had died to a low hum before continuing. “He is of royal blood. Prince Cuthbert and Princess Gretchen specifically.”
He flung his arm out in the direction of his brother, only realising the true folly of his admission when he caught Cuthbert’s puzzled expression. “What?”
King Rupert IX’s bottom lip quivered uncertainly; “It’s…it’s complicated.”
“How can Tarquin possibly be…” began Prince Cuthbert, before coming to an abrupt halt, his mouth dropping open. “The one you told us died in childbirth?”
“Could… could we discuss this later?”
Rupert IX turned desperately to Queen Elspeth for help, as his brother extricated himself from Gretchen’s loosened hold and took a step towards him. Instead, his wife crumpled heavily into the free throne and buried her face in both hands. Cuthbert rounded on her, “That’s why he wouldn’t let us see you! You were never even pregnant!”
“You stole my baby?” wailed Gretchen wretchedly.
“Yes, but you have three beautiful children now,” said King Rupert, attempting a smile.
“How could he?” “He looks the type!” “The shame!”
“Will you shut up!” erupted King Rupert, rounding on the crowd. “I needed a child, there was no choice!”
A silence fell and the King became aware that all eyes had drifted towards Queen Elspeth who, apparently sensing the same, uncovered her face.
“Well don’t look at me!” she snapped, sending the collective eyes of the crowd swinging back towards him. He badly needed a distraction. Any distraction.
“Wait, so I’m adopted!” cried Prince Tarquin from the courtyard below. King Rupert IX winced. Except that one.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly, motioning urgently for Queen Elspeth to join him in a show of unity for their son, “but we loved you as if you were our own.”
“You locked me in a tower and sacrificed me to a ruddy, great dragon,” yelled the Prince, flailing an arm in the direction of the beast.
“As… as we would have done had you been our real son.”
“Don’t drag me into this, I didn’t want to sacrifice him,” said the Queen, belatedly appearing at his side. “I always loved you Tarquin.”
“But Uncle Cuthbert and Auntie Gretchen are my real parents?” said the Prince, his voice trembling.
“Yes,” said Rupert IX.
“No,” contradicted the dragon, and everyone turned to face it. “The boy has a royal mother, but a peasant father.”
“A peasant father?” “He looks the type!” “The shame!”
“I am bloody well not a peasant and if Gretchen is his mother, I am most certainly the father!” exclaimed Cuthbert, his voice bristling with indignation.
“Exactly!” added King Rupert IX, pouncing on the opportunity to regain favour with his brother. “Princess Gretchen would never even have been alone with a peasant, aside from her bodyguard, who back then…”
The King tailed off and turned a horrified face to Garreshi.
“We took precautions,” he blurted out with a desperate laugh. “It wasn’t even her time.”
“Garreshi!” shrieked Gretchen.
“You had sex with the princess you were guarding?” yelled the King.
“She said it was my duty.”
“Do you believe everything you’re told? What is wrong with you?”
“Gretchen?” breathed Prince Cuthbert, his face completely drained of colour.
“Cuthy please, I can explain,” she said, extending her arms towards her retreating husband.
“How could she?” “She looks the type!” “The shame!”
Realising she’d unexpectedly become the new centre of attention, Gretchen flushed a deep red and angrily withdrew her arms.
“He was always off pillaging and hunting,” she shouted at the crowd. “I’m a very sexual person and… well just look at Garreshi. How was I supposed to resist that?”
“Wait, so Garreshi is my Dad?” shouted Tarquin suddenly.
“Yes,” growled the dragon, with what might even have been a smile.
The Prince turned to look up at his former bodyguard, his eyes wide as plates. “But we… you sucked my…” he stammered.
“I didn’t know!” cried Garreshi. “And you told me to!”
“Oh my God!” Tarquin yelled, sinking to his knees and covering his face.
“Son,” said King Rupert, Queen Elspeth, Princess Gretchen and Garreshi in unison, before turning to glare at one another.
“Enough!” growled the dragon, smashing its claw into the ground and sending a further shower of masonry onto the stricken crowd below. “You have failed to provide an acceptable sacrifice and must suffer the consequences. I will start by devouring the one responsible.”
“Wait, the one responsible?” cried King Rupert IX in a last, hysterical bid. “That has to be
Garreshi! He’s the one who can’t even keep his hands off his own son.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from…” began Garreshi, before an ominous growl from the dragon cut him off.
“The King is always responsible.”
Realising he was finally out of arguments, Rupert wet his royal britches, a strangely liberating feeling. At least there was the consolation that he was about to save the Kingdom from destruction, if not himself. And that by the time the dragon unexpectedly pronounced itself satisfied with the sacrifice, laying bare the truth of his own sexual dysfunction, he would no longer be around to suffer the humiliation. King Rupert IX closed his eyes and waited for the release of the dragon’s jaws.
Story © 2014 Keith Rosser, all rights reserved.